


Recompense

by triforcelegends8



Series: Intoxicated [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mental Torture, Molestation, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triforcelegends8/pseuds/triforcelegends8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tortures John as payback for what he did to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recompense

“Yeah? Well, I don’t believe you. When I get back you better either be able to prove you didn’t tell anyone or be ready for me. Hear me?" John said while redressing himself and walking to the door. "And if you run of and I find you, it’ll be worse than ever before!” he snarled as he slammed the door shut behind him.

* * *

 

Sherlock was still lying on his stomach on the couch with his pants and trousers pulled down to his knees when John left the room. He slowly pushed himself up on his hands and flipped himself over, pulling his trousers back up and buttoning and zipping them back. He was secretly grateful that his brother chose now to call John. He had stopped what he was doing to Sherlock an now the dark-haired man had time to plan out his revenge.

He knew John was emotional when it came to anything that had to do with the war and planned to use that against him somehow. But the question was what could he do? There were so many possibilities...

Sherlock shook his head, scattering the disorganized thoughts and focusing on the more important matter at hand: how to restrain John. He couldn't just torture the man with thoughts and images of war when he was unrestrained without risking his own well-being.

He could put a sedative in John's tea. No, he most likely wouldn't drink it if Sherlock gave him the cup of tea. Maybe an injection? Good idea, but he didn't have anything on hand to use and it would be quite a struggle getting John still enough to inject him. A gas? No, Sherlock would be affected by it as well. Suffocation? That might actually kill him, and Sherlock didn't want a death on his hands.

He knew he needed John either sedated or unconscious, but there seemed to be no way to attain either of those except for hitting him on the head. Sherlock groaned in dread realization. That was exactly what he’d have to do. He would have to hit John hard enough with the right tool in the right spot to render him unconscious. He sighed. John deserved being hit in the head anyways. Well, he deserved much more than that, but for Sherlock’s purposes that would have to do.

Sherlock stood from the couch and began to look around the flat for something he could use on John that wouldn’t give him a concussion or kill him. His eyes roamed around the room and landed on the fire iron resting near the fireplace. Sherlock thought for a moment and decided against using it. It was too narrow and would possibly injure John more than that dark-haired man would want. He needed something broad, sturdy, and easy to handle. A pan? That might not actually knock John out, but he would use it if there was nothing else. All he needed to do was apply the right force to the right spot on John’s head and it would be fine. Maybe a lamp? No, he didn’t want to risk John not passing out and the mess from the broken glass and blood from John would be impossible to clean up completely. And he didn’t want to have to explain the mess to Mrs. Hudson.

But what could he use? Sherlock yelled in frustration and whirled around, kicking whatever was in front of him, which happened to be the clothes hanger. Sherlock glared at his Belstaff and the cane in the bin below it, fuming as his glare settled on the narrow wooden object. Sherlock’s mind paused and his eyes widened with insight. The cane. It was perfect! Not too heavy, easy to swing, and wouldn’t put John in a coma when he hit him with it.

He heard the downstairs doorknob rattle. John was home. Sherlock had to think, and quick! Where would John search for him first? The living room would be glanced over, then… John’s room. He would then check upstairs quickly first because he would think Sherlock would hide where he least expected then made his escape.

Sherlock grabbed up the cane and rushed into the kitchen, hiding in the corner of the wall separating the kitchen and living room. He gripped the cane painfully tight and held his breath as the door to the flat opened and he heard John yelling Sherlock’s name.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” He heard the man check upstairs and a few minutes later he heard the heavy steps thundering through the building. No doubt John would already think that Sherlock had left like he suggested him not to do. He wouldn’t expect the blow to his head from around the corner because he was starting to think nobody else would be in the flat.

Sherlock held the cane up to his right, his elbows bent and his heart racing faster, to prepare for the hit. He saw John’s foot before he saw his head and tensed up, ready to swing. When the sandy-hair came in to view, Sherlock locked his eyes on the spot below the man’s temple and swung. The cane made contact with John’s skull with a resounding and satisfying crack.

The dark-haired man let out a breath he only just realised he had been holding and watched as John’s unconscious body fell hard and fast to the floor. He dropped the cane and hurriedly picked up John’s body, his mind racing of what to do now. He hadn’t had time to think of what he was to do after John was unconscious, but now was as good a time as any. His eyes focused on the computer chair John sat at when he was typing his blog. It was good enough. It had arms and legs on it and was stationary. It may not have been the most stable, and Sherlock had told John so many times before that it would eventually break when he sat in it one day, but it would have to do.

Sherlock winced at the memory. When he thought John was good, was his friend. It pained him to know that he had been so very wrong. That this was what John really was; a monster, come to haunt him at night. A never-relenting force that battered and scarred Sherlock in the most intimate of ways.

No. Sherlock couldn’t focus on that now. He needed to get John restrained. He lifted the heavy man and struggled to get him into the chair, half-carrying, half-dragging him. When he finally did set him in the chair, he was halfway on it, and Sherlock adjusted him to where he was fully on it before leaving to look for rope. He had some in his room, for a possible experiment, and ran to get it. He grabbed the rope and came back to John with his head lolling from side to side and his body trying to move and regain consciousness. Sherlock had to work quickly.

Before Sherlock could tie John down, he grabbed a knife from the kitchen and cut the rope into equal lengths, each long enough to secure an arm or leg. He jogged back into the living room and began to wrap the sections of rope around John’s wrists and ankles, securing them to the arms and legs of the chair.

He had just fixed up the rope around John when the man was coming back to full consciousness. Sherlock stepped back hastily as John’s arms and legs began to move, trying to test if he could move around or not.

“Wh… Ugh, what-“ John’s eyes were open now and he was looking down at his bindings with a furrowed brow. “What- what is this?” His head snapped up to look at Sherlock. “What did you do?” he demanded in a fierce tone.

Sherlock flinched at the voice, but was able to speak, “I… I knocked you out and tied you up. Obviously.”

John only glared at the man; all too aware his fate was in Sherlock’s hands now. He smirked. “And why would you do that, Sherlock?” he asked sweetly.

Sherlock gulped and took in a quiet, shuddering breath before answering, “B-Because I plan to give you what you deserve.” Sherlock knew that John was no idiot. Sherlock was still afraid of him, tied up or not. It was a primal fear; set in his bones from that first night John had taken him. He could do nothing about it except ignore it while he tortured John.

“And what do I deserve?” John questioned with a cold glare.

“All that I plan to give you,” Sherlock answered, busying himself with moving the table to the side to have complete access to John.

“Which would be…?”

Sherlock smiled, revenge humming through his veins. “One moment, and you’ll see,” he cleared his throat and began to speak while walking closer and closer to John. “John Watson, do you remember your service in the war?”

A muscle near John’s mouth twitched and he hesitated before answering, “Yes.”

“Good. Then this will be much easier,” the dark-haired man said as he clambered down onto his knees between John’s legs. He laid his hand on John’s knee, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth as he asked, “You killed men in the war, correct?”

John clenched his jaw and looked down at Sherlock with blazing eyes. He didn’t answer.

Sherlock frowned. “Won’t you tell me?” he pouted. John still stayed silent. Sherlock sighed and slowly got up from his feet towering over John as he stared down at him. A few seconds passed before the taller man raised his hand and brought it down fast across the other man’s cheek. “Tell me!” he demanded.

John gasped, surprised by the sudden attack and fought to keep his composure. His head was whipped to the side with the impact of the blow and he slowly brought it back to face Sherlock, whose chest was heaving. “Are you still scared of me, Sherlock?” he asked.

He only responded with another slap. The crack bounced off the walls and rung quickly in their ears. Sherlock kept slapping the man until John had had enough.

“Yes! Of course I did Sherlock! I was a soldier! Of course I did!”

“Good,” Sherlock panted. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He inhaled deeply and wiped his hand on his trouser leg, smearing away any unseen filth from touching John.

John glared daggers at Sherlock, huffing in anger as he watched the man lower himself back down between John’s legs.

“Now,” he said, “answer the questions when I ask them and you will be rewarded.”

John huffed a laugh and said, “You do know being slapped is more annoying than it is painful.”

Sherlock smiled and let his hand crawl slightly up John’s leg, to rest of the middle of his thigh. “Yes. I know you can tolerate pain. And being annoyed. But I wonder…” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s crotch and he asked another question before doing anything else. “Did you enjoy killing them, John? Relish the look on their face as the light in their eyes faded?” As he was speaking, Sherlock’s hand was slowly traveling upward, toward the man’s groin, forcing his body to react to the touch, to the possibility of being touch more intimately.

“Did you enjoy killing them?” he repeated in a stricter tone. John saw red. He knew what Sherlock was trying to do. He was trying to control him like John had done Sherlock. He was trying to break him, make him afraid. Make him regret what he had done to Sherlock.

It would never work.

“You think just because you… you torture me that it’ll make me sorry for what I did to you?” He laughed. “Never would I forget the look on your face when I raped you. When I broke you. When you realized that I was never really your friend. That I could never be something more other than what I am now. You said it; a monster. And guess what? I’m your monster. I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. Torturing me won’t erase the memory and you know it,” John finished with a snarl.

Sherlock’s eyes had taken on a distant look as John had spoken and his face was frozen in a haunted frown. John gave a chuckle of victory, which brought Sherlock back to earth. He looked at John, confused, then changed his expression into something more stolid, more blank. He was still situated between John’s legs and all of a sudden grabbed John’s crotch firmly, making John groan out loud. Sherlock squeezed John’s hardening member with a shaking hand and repeated his question once again, “Did you enjoy killing them?!”

The dark-haired man used his other hand to slap John again, still groping him roughly. “Do you remember them, John?”

The sandy-haired man grunted angrily.

Sherlock growled in frustration and snatched his hand away from John’s clothed member as he jumped up from the floor to his full height. “Stay put,” he mumbled. He went to his room quickly and returned with a black riding crop. “Now, this will hurt more than just a slap. Probably more annoying too.” As he walked over to John, Sherlock noticed the man’s bulge in his pants. He gulped. John wasn’t supposed to actually be enjoying this. The whole point of this was to frighten John; to make him afraid in some way. He was doing something wrong. Was he not talking about the war enough? Was he letting him talk too much? Was he being too gentle in bringing pain to John? Possibly. He needed to focus on something more personal to John. Something that haunted him. But what?

John shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders back and cocking his head to one side. That was when it hit Sherlock. His bullet wound. The man had fucking nightmares about it, of course that was what haunted him. It wasn’t killing men either; it was not being able to save them like he had been saved.

Sherlock smiled devilishly and sauntered over to John, who eyed him and the riding crop warily. “Are you going to answer the question, John?” Sherlock asked as he lowered the riding crop to the man’s crotch.

John only glared at Sherlock with a smirk.

A muscle near Sherlock’s mouth twitched and without warning, he raised the tool and brought it down hard against John’s face. He immediately yelled out in pain, cursing the other man’s name and twisting his head away from him. Sherlock, however didn’t relent. He brought down the tool again and again, hitting the side of John’s face, his shoulder, his chest, and even his crotch. John stopped yelling in favour of only grunting in pain, refusing to give Sherlock any more satisfaction than that.

“Tell me, dammit!” Sherlock yelled as he brought it down once more on John’s face. The poor man had red welts all over him, some bleeding, others becoming inflamed. Sherlock stopped long enough to catch his breath and give John a chance to answer.

“… Yes,” John mumbled quietly.

“Sorry?” Sherlock teased, holding a hand to his ear, as if he didn’t hear him.

“Yes!” he repeated with a growl. The man eyes bored into Sherlock’s, making him freeze for a second before snapping out of his fear.

“Now,” Sherlock said, as he laid the riding crop down lightly on the table behind him, “Where were we?” Sherlock lowered himself once again between John’s legs and asked his next question. “When were you shot?”

John visibly flinched and Sherlock smiled triumphantly before masking his glee. “What?” he whispered.

Sherlock raised his brows at John as he slid his hands up the man’s thighs. “I asked, when were you shot?” he said innocently as he rested a firm hand on John’s bulge. He shifted beneath Sherlock’s touch uncomfortably before hesitantly answering, “I don’t remember.”

“You’re lying,” Sherlock stated reaching for the riding crop.

“I’m not,” John insisted. One of Sherlock’s hands was still on John’s clothed member and he massaged it gently, making the other man moan slightly. Sherlock faltered and John chuckled as he noticed the man’s discomfort.

“Is it hard, Sherlock? How hard am I? I bet you like it. I bet you even liked it when I—“ John was cut off with Sherlock’s grip tightening painfully on his member.

Sherlock sighed shakily and reached for the riding crop once again.

John, confused, said, “I answered your question. What are you doing?”

Sherlock mumbled to himself, “You’re not supposed be enjoying this…” He spoke louder this time, so John could hear, “You’re being punished. Obviously.”

John huffed in laughter and tensed up, unconsciously preparing for the blow. Sherlock hummed in glee.

He was about to bring the tool down upon John once again, but stopped when Lestrade burst through the door.

“What have you two been doin’? I’ve been calling and texting. I’ve a got a case—“ He stopped speaking when he saw the scene before him. He asked seriously, in a tone reserved for the criminals he put in jail, “What’s going on here?”


End file.
